Five Things Sherlock Finds Hard to Say
by jeeno2
Summary: She breaks down all his defenses.


_a/n: I recently watched all three series of Sherlock. This short one-shot was the result. I hope you enjoy. :) _

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><p><em><strong>1. you win<strong>_

The first thing Sherlock notices the night he shows up at St. Barts for a fresh cadaver while high on cocaine and ecstasy and God only knows what else is that despite Molly Hooper's usual passive disposition in regards to him he is, in fact, capable of making her quite angry.

The second thing Sherlock notices is that she has a mean right hook when she wants to.

"_Oof,_" he grunts, wincing, when Molly's fist connects with his cheek, her knuckles cutting into him with a force he wouldn't have believed possible from her just ten minutes ago. She yells at him then – words he can hardly believe, coming from her, words he knows he will delete later when he deletes the rest of this horrible night.

One bit stays with him, though: "If you come in here high off your arse again, that's it, Sherlock Holmes," she spits, long wispy brown strands of hair loosening themselves from her ponytail as she shakes her head angrily at him. "No more help from me."

He grins at her then. The toothy grin he knows she likes. The stupid one that nearly splits his face in half, the smile he saves for special occasions when he needs an especially big favor from Dr. Molly Hooper.

Only his pathologist is not swayed this time. Her eyes narrow into slits. Before Sherlock can say another word she slaps him again, and then again, making his ears ring and his teeth itch.

"All right," he mumbles, hands raised, palms forward in supplication, when at length the assault is over. He mouths the words weakly but no less earnestly for that. "You win." Two little words Sherlock Holmes never says if he can help it; but they seem appropriate here. "It won't happen again, I swear."

It's a vow he doubts he can keep. He is friendless and lives alone, with no one but his dotty old landlady and Mycroft to watch over him. Sherlock's boredom when he is between cases is crippling. Suffocating. The allure of escape is often too powerful for him to resist.

But that night, under the cold harsh florescent lighting of St. Barts' morgue and for the first time since uni, Sherlock Holmes decides to put forth his best effort at getting clean. _Really_ clean, this time.

He needs Molly Hooper far too badly to risk angering her like this again.

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><p><em><strong>2. thank you<strong>_

Molly saved him. There isn't a shred of doubt in his mind about that.

Had it not been for her willingness to risk her job and God only knows what else to help him stage his death Sherlock would not be sitting in her warm, comfortable flat right now, drinking weak tea with the telly on.

He would _actually_ be dead. All thirteen scenarios he developed with Mycroft led to that same inevitable conclusion. He'd have been thrown off the rooftop by Moriarty, or else shot through the back of the head with the gun that that man – madder than even Sherlock suspected him to be – later unexpectedly used on himself.

Thanking people is something Sherlock generally has no use for. A sheer waste of time. A bit of perfunctory, pointless sentiment forgotten by all parties involved the very moment the words leave the thanker's lips.

But tonight, at Molly's flat, as she brings him crisps and fusses over the scratches his fall left on his arms and on his face, he thanks her anyway.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he tells her, his voice thick from nerves and too many consecutive nights without sleep and something else he cannot identify.

She's applying a small bandage to his left hand when he says it. She flinches, and he can feel her pulse speed up a little – just a little – underneath his hand at his words. He knows what her quickening pulse means but decides now is neither the time nor the place to mention it. (John would be proud of his restraint. If, of course, John didn't currently believe he was dead.)

"What… what are you thanking me for?" Molly asks, stammering a little, trying to sound casual as she shrugs her thin shoulders. The right side of Sherlock's mouth quirks up into a half-smile at her false modesty.

"You know what for," he murmurs, wincing a little as she dabs at one of his deeper cuts with a bit of cotton dipped in alcohol.

They eat a hasty dinner of cold cuts and rye bread that night at her kitchen table, not making eye contact as the enormity of just how much Sherlock has come to depend on the woman sitting next to him sinks in.

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><p><em><strong>3. i don't know<strong>_

Sherlock fidgets with the knot in his tie, far more nervous about the speech he's to give in less than fifteen minutes' time than he wants anyone in this room to realise.

He's been over the silly thing dozens of times by now. He even read parts of it to Mrs. Hudson last night. His landlady teared up at the end and proclaimed it beautiful, which Sherlock found rather gratifying. Of course, she also routinely gets weepy over television adverts, so Sherlock knows her opinion of the speech's quality only counts for so much.

The whole thing is a bit ridiculous, really. He single-handedly took down Moriarty's international criminal network, and yet here he is, in a garishly-decorated room, terrified of giving a sodding speech to a roomful of tipsy wedding guests. But while Sherlock has many strengths, he knows reading the mood of a roomful of people has never been among them.

He is loath to admit it, even to himself. But the fact of the matter is, he's quaking in his metaphorical boots.

As he flips rapidly through his cue cards one final time, making certain he's committed at least the most salient bits to memory, he catches sight of Molly Hooper and her ridiculous boyfriend out of the corner of his eye. They're standing at the opposite end of the room, feeding little hors d'oeurves to each other from a plate she's holding.

They're giggling together like a pair of morons. Except Molly isn't a moron. Not usually, anyway. She's intelligent, and cunning, and one of the bravest people he knows. Sherlock's eyes narrow at the sight of them, Molly in her bright yellow dress, hanging onto the arm of this lanky man with the stupid hair and the crooked smile.

It's true that this one _is _an improvement over most of the other men she's chosen. Tom does not as of yet show any indicators of being a sociopath. But he breathes through his mouth - a clear sign of minimal intellect – and routinely laughs at things that are patently unfunny.

"He's an idiot," Sherlock decides, only realizing later that he's said the words aloud.

"I am not," John says in mock protest, appearing at Sherlock's side a moment later. He holds a long-stemmed glass of red wine in each hand. John's ruddy complexion and drooping eyelids tell Sherlock the groom has been drinking from them both.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John's little joke, still watching Molly and her boyfriend - no; fiancé, is it? - feeding each other from their shared plate. Tom gets a smudge of something on the corner of Molly's mouth, making her laugh loudly and causing Sherlock's hands to curl involuntarily into fists.

"Why are you staring at them?" John nudges Sherlock's shoulder and points in the happy couple's general direction.

"I'm not staring at anyone," Sherlock mutters, still staring.

"Ah, I see," John says. Sherlock doesn't need to look at his best friend to know he's wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

John clears his throat and throws an arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stiffens instinctively, bracing himself for a conversation he most certainly does not wish to have right now. Or ever.

"So. What do you think she sees in him, eh?" John's voice is odd, and not just because of the alcohol he's consumed today. It's very odd indeed, his voice, and his breath smells of wine and mints and feigned nonchalance and amusement.

Sherlock just wants to get the hell away from him and practice his damn speech.

"Who sees what in whom, exactly?" Sherlock asks, his irritation mounting. He tears his eyes away from Molly and Tom and begins shifting through his cue cards again.

"Molly and Tom, you dolt. What do you think Molly sees in Tom?"

To Sherlock's surprise, his best friend's words, spoken aloud, actually cause him something akin to physical pain. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know, John," Sherlock admits, irritated at both the question and the fact that he cannot begin answer it. "I do know this, however: Molly Hooper deserves better than the likes of him."

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><p><em><strong>4. forgive me<strong>_

Molly has Sherlock pressed up against the door of his flat, her hands playing with the bottom hem of his suit jacket, her mouth molding itself to his.

Sherlock had not expected this. A moment ago they'd been bickering about something stupid. She'd dropped by to tell him he couldn't come round St. Barts anymore. Her supervisors have cottoned on to the fact that bodies tend to go missing during her shifts. They told her today – in a closed-door meeting – that it needs to stop.

Sherlock yelled at her when she told him. Cruel things. Unfair things. He accused her of not having a spine. Of not giving a damn about his work anymore, of not giving a damn about _him_. As Sherlock shouted these things at Molly, the thought of losing her on top of everything and everyone he's already lost caused his heart to clench painfully inside his chest.

Molly eyes went hard, cold, at his accusations. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Sherlock," she spat through gritted teeth.

Sherlock can't clearly remember exactly what happened after that. Only that it involved a bit more shouting from both of them - and then rather a lot of feverish kissing.

Molly's mouth finds his again and she parts his lips roughly with her tongue. It takes him less than a second to collect himself, to realise what's happening and to reciprocate, and he whimpers a little, awash in sensation, all of his synapses firing. She begins caressing his tongue with hers, very tentatively, all of this new and completely foreign to them both.

This is not Sherlock's first kiss. There were those kisses with Irene Adler of course. He kissed Janine too, a few times. And Molly as well, the afternoon of his fall. But this kiss - these kisses, rather - are unlike anything Sherlock has ever experienced. His mind slows inexorably as Molly's hands leave the hem of his jacket and slowly travel up, and up, sliding over the smooth flat planes of his chest. When she deepens the kiss a moment later he moans indelicately into her mouth, wrapping his arms tightly around her so she cannot get away, cannot leave him ever again.

"Please forgive me," he breathes against her ear. He traces its delicate shell with the tip of his tongue, and she shudders deliciously against him, disintegrating and scattering all his memories of other women like dust motes on a gust of wind.

"It was always you," she says by way of response, her voice husky now, as she begins suckling at his earlobe and tangling her hands into fists in his hair.

"Always me," he repeats, dumbly, his mind reeling, unable to think or to process any of this properly.

His heart is racing now, and so is hers, and they're both breathing heavily as they kiss and twine together against the door. It occurs to him, suddenly, that a gentleman in this situation would probably shift himself a little so that his lower body was positioned away from hers. He tries to move away from her but Molly - that strong girl; that indefatigable woman - doesn't allow it. She traps Sherlock's growing erection between their bodies and grinds against him, hard, wrenching an involuntary, and very loud, moan from the normally extraordinarily composed Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock walks her backwards through his flat, past the kitchen, towards his bedroom, his mind now focused on a single goal: getting Molly Hooper out of her clothes and into his bed. He tries to visualize what her small, perfect breasts must look like underneath her blouse and, when he thinks he's managed it, he begins mouthing at her neck, her breasts with a kind of hunger he's never felt before. Molly arches into his touch and follows his lead willingly, eagerly, until there is nothing else in the world but her hands fumbling with his belt buckle and the backs of her knees hitting the edge of his mattress.

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><p><em><strong>5. i love you<strong>_

There is an entire wing in Sherlock Holmes' mind palace devoted solely to the intricacies of his wife's body.

There are sub-compartments dedicated to her curves and to all of her many physical perfections. There are cabinets devoted to the secret smiles she shares with him and him alone.

Sometimes, when he is away from her for too long, he will visit the chamber where he keeps all the quiet whimpers she gives him when he touches her in just the right way, and to the animalistic groans he's able to wrench from her throat when he tastes her during their sex.

Molly Holmes' body has changed a lot in the five years Sherlock has known and loved it. All of these changes have been carefully kept and recorded and preserved in his memory forever. He loves them all equally. Every version of her.

He knows with a certainty that he will never delete a single detail.

On the eve of their son's birth, as they frantically pack Molly's bags and get ready to go to hospital, he decides, rather impulsively, to tell her how he feels about… well. About all of this.

"You are beautiful, Molly Holmes," he says. Because it's true, and because he knows she doesn't believe she is beautiful right now. "You were beautiful when I met you. And you're beautiful now. And… well. I love you, too." He says all of this very earnestly, one hand at the small of her back and the other resting gently on her burgeoning stomach. If love is nothing but human error, somewhere along the way Sherlock Holmes dove, fell, plunged himself headfirst into the abyss anyway. Her love for him eventually broke down all of his walls, all of his defenses, until he had no choice but to embrace loving her, too. No matter that love is a messy, unpredictable business.

He doesn't say the words often. Outward displays of sentiment do not come any easier to Sherlock Holmes now than they did when he was a younger man and grappling with these things for the first time. Normally he chooses instead to _show_ her how much he cares for her through actions and deeds.

He's learned, however, that there are times when actions and deeds aren't enough. He decides that Molly being in labor is as good a time as any to put words to how he feels for her every single day.

But Molly only shakes her head at him and his pretty words. "I know you love me, Mr. Holmes," Molly tells him wryly, one eyebrow raised. She kisses him, chastely, on the mouth. On the tip of his nose. Each cheek. "And I love you too. Now, if you don't mind - would you _please_ get me my coat and call a sodding cab?"

Laughing, Sherlock presses another gentle kiss to her lips. "Already done, my dear," he says, handing over her jacket. "The car's at the curb waiting for us."

Without another word spoken between them, Sherlock and Molly Holmes descend the staircase of 221B and open the door to the cold night air. He helps her into the cab and smiles, his mind racing with excitement, his heart fit to burst with joy.

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><p><em>an: Thank you for reading. If you'd like to say hello to me on tumblr (or shout at me for neglecting my WIPs to write for a new fandom), I'm there as jeeno2. :)_


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